


espionage photography

by forochel



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-11
Updated: 2010-09-11
Packaged: 2017-11-02 23:07:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forochel/pseuds/forochel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>fill for <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/4946.html?thread=7209042#t7209042">this prompt</a> at <span class="ljuser ljuser-name_inception_kink"></span><a href="http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/"><b>inception_kink</b></a>: <i>5 photographs Eames (secretly) took of Arthur, and 1 Arthur took of Eames.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	espionage photography

i.

Within the first hour of their initial meeting, Eames has taken a blurry photograph of Arthur with his phone camera. One never knows when a particular body would come in handy, and needs must, after all. He leaves after that day's practice with the neat, economical movements of Arthur tucked away into his memory, together with the clean planes and unbroken lines of his slight figure. When Eames gets back to his rooms he sinks into a plush armchair and closes his eyes; recreating Arthur’s figure in the dark space behind them. He opens his eyes again, after a while, holding that figure in his mind, and checks the gallery in his phone. He loses that mental image almost immediately — the noise in the photograph has softened those edges, blurred the meeting of Arthur’s bespoke waistcoat and trousers at his hips; smoothed out the sharpness of his face as captured in the moment of turning his head from the examination of a Mobius Strip to smirk at Cobb. This is an Arthur that, as far as Eames knows, exists only in the grainy filters of his shitty phone camera. An intriguing figure.

 

Eames wants a crack at that.

 

 

ii.

It’s rather cliched and anyone would have thought of it, but possibly only Eames would have actually done it — he takes advantage of Arthur going under with Mal, and Cobb not being around to breathe metaphorical fire to take a photograph of Arthur spread out in those infernal deck chairs the Cobbs favour. Eames’d once turned up in bathing shorts and not very much else as a pointed gesture of rebellion and got wide, painful, red bands the exact width of the plastic strips across the undersides of his thighs for his trouble.

 

The issue of deck chairs or soft leather chaise longues aside — Arthur, whose forehead is wrinkled even in repose; lines of concentration and possible irritation (very easily annoyed, Arthur, which is part of the fun) etched into his young forehead, is a languid sprawl of long, slender, well-clad limbs in a bloody deck chair. Ruins the composition, rather. The only signs of tension are in his forehead and the way his eyes twitch beneath dark, lush lashes. Arthur’s arms rest on the - hah - arms of the deck chair, sleeves rolled up to his fore-arms in concession to the wet heat that has his linen trousers sticking to his thighs in places; where his right leg is crooked slightly, bowed outwards; where his left leg is weighed down by its own weight into the slight give of the plastic bands beneath it.

 

For Eames, though, the best part is Arthur’s feet: long, thin, bony — much like the rest of him. Paler than the rest of Arthur, too, with sparse hairs dark against the fish-belly white of his skin. Arthur baring his feet is something like Arthur being entirely starkers; Eames has seen flashes of Arthur’s skin in previous jobs, but never his feet. They twitch in Arthur’s sleep as well; funny how the man can never quite keep absolutely still.

 

Eames snaps a shot of Arthur’s naked feet after a few minutes of contemplation, just scant seconds before Arthur and Mal wake up.

 

 

iii.

It’s become almost a bit of an obsession, really, if Eames were to be honest about it. And Eames is nothing if an honest man. Pity no-one ever believes him about things. They don’t meet very often, he and Arthur; it is only by the clemency of the Cobbs, whom Eames suspects are rather sharper about these things than Arthur, that they come together on the occasional job. So Eames doesn’t have very much to go on, one must understand, and — all right, yes, Eames is perfectly capable of recreating Arthur clad in several sets of impeccably fitted clothing in his mind, but mementos are always good.

 

Like when Arthur wandered in without a tie and a lick of hair curling into his barely-open eyes on the first day of a job; the first two buttons on his shirt had been undone and Eames had nearly been undone at that — that and the look of sleepy alarm struggling out of a cocoon of metaphorical blankets and onto Arthur’s face. Arthur had clearly not been expecting Eames, and because Eames is never one to lose out on blackmail material (amongst other things) he raises his phone and snaps a photograph.

 

That does the job. Arthur wakes up right away and Eames gets another photograph of his snarling face. Endearing, really.

 

 

iv.

He sort of likes the quality, or lack-thereof, of his cellphone photographs. They’re almost _romantic_ ; distorted like reality is when one is in love, or in the Dreaming. Is there a difference? The abusive flirtations that fly fast and sharp and barbed with dismissive arrogance between them speak to a physical attraction, certainly — Eames wants to shag Arthur; he thinks Arthur could probably do with easing up the tension between them and wouldn’t mind if he weren’t so _afraid_ — though that doesn’t explain him sliding his phone out of his pocket to snap a picture of Arthur leaning against a wall: slumped against it, almost, in his exhaustion. There’re cuts all over Arthur’s arms from a dark-haired projection that had borne a troubling resemblance to Mal before Eames had blown her head off, and there are truly vicious rents in the monk’s robes Arthur had been disguised in. Arthur’s bleeding and dizzy and so truly out of it, breathing shallowly as he rests his forehead against the coarse stone of the monastery wall, that he doesn’t notice the gentle click of the phone shutters. He’s beautiful like this, bloody and bruised and just sitting in silence with Eames standing guard over his back, the both of them waiting for the kick.

 

(Pity the photograph won’t be in his phone when they get back to reality.)

 

 

v.

It’s a year and a bit after the phantom photograph (it surfaces sometimes in Eames’s natural dreams — bloody hauntingingly _Arthur_ Arthur) that he takes up the inception job.

 

“This, Ariadne,” Eames says while kicking Arthur’s chair over, “would be a kick.”

 

Ariadne, whom Eames is sure has a baby crush on Arthur, cannot smother a chortle at the way Arthur flails as he goes over. Arthur’s face contorts. It is _the best face_ Eames has ever seen Arthur making. He contrives to have Arthur make it more — fortunately, Yusuf is well in Eames’s pocket, and his plans with the altered Somnacin dovetail nicely with Eames quest to have Arthur flailing as he tips over as many times as possible.

 

“I really don’t see why it has to be me,” Arthur protests, his eyebrows drawn together. “It isn’t like I’m particularly resistant towards vertigo.”

 

“Well, Arthur, you _are_ the pointman. And as such ought to be on point for all things, up to and including our Yusuf’s fascinating research into making sure we satisfy Saito’s demands.”

 

 _Plus, the face you make is really funny_ , but Eames has the presence of mind not to say that out loud. Arthur looks as though he knows what Eames is thinking anyway.

 

“Actually,” Arthur says thoughtfully, “We should all be testing for it, just in case. Wouldn’t you agree, Eames?”

 

“I,” Eames says cheerfully, “have field research to do, though I wouldn’t mind testing out the final solution.”

 

Ariadne’s eyes are laughing as she busies herself with models. Cobb and Yusuf are ignoring them firmly, over in their corner of staid professionalism. Of sorts. Yusuf might or might not be hiding a grin.

 

Despite Eames having actual field research to do, he manages to be present for every single test run of whatever compound Yusuf’s managed to concoct. He also calls dibs on being the one to administer the kicks; it’s all a bit playground, to be honest, but Eames doesn’t quite know how to function romantically around Arthur. Sweet nothings and flowers just don’t go over very well, even in his imagination. He does, however, make sure that there’s a crash mat to cushion Arthur’s falls, especially for the first two times the kick _doesn’t_ work and Arthur goes over in a languid decrescendo of limbs, the serenely asleep expression on his face smooshed up against the tacky orange of the mat.

 

He snaps a photograph of that for laughs, passes his fingers through the sticky locks of Arthur’s gelled hair casually as he props the man back up against the chair.

 

 

+i.

“For my files,” Arthur murmurs with a slight smile as he turns to put the camera away. Eames stops him midway with a hand on his arm.

 

"Your files?" his voice is light and amused in his ears. "Wouldn't this be rather belated?"

 

"I didn't say _which_." Arthur turns back, camera still cradled loosedly in the curl of his fingers.

 

"Ah," Eames tilts his head back, eyes Arthur knowingly. Bares his throat and the dark markings the shape of Arthur's teeth on the skin there. "Carry on, then."

 

 

(end)

 


End file.
